Prodigal Blues (32 page)

"But we're… we're protected by the bus."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, I hear you Pete Townshend—the magic bus protects us all."
 
I started pulling myself to my feet.

I failed.

Miserably.

"Your turn," I said.
 

Christopher pulled himself to his feet, almost lost his balance and fell, but caught himself against the side of the trailer in time.
 
"Jesus, Mark—you take martial arts or something?
 
That was… ouch!…
damn
that was a nasty kick."

"Blind shithouse luck."
 
I lifted my arm.
 
"Help me up."

He did, and the two of us lurched slowly toward the front of the bus, hanging onto each other for balance.
 
When we reached the tire beside which lay the gun, we stopped and looked down.

"I'm not gonna try it," he said.

"We could just leave it here."

"Right.
 
A murder weapon with both of our fingerprints all over it.
 
That may be the most ingenious thing I've ever heard.
 
Thank God we picked you, if we hadn't been careful we might have grabbed someone stupid."

"Get in, I'll get it."

Christopher did not so much climb into the bus as he did flop like a fish onto the floor of a boat, then pulled himself over into the driver's seat.
 
He bumped his swollen nuts on the gearshift once and made a girlie noise.
 
It was very entertaining.

But not half so entertaining as when I bent over to pick up the gun and fell face-first onto the road.
 
I was lying flat, covered in road dirt and the remains of a milkshake that had been tossed out by someone else before we got here, but at least I had the gun.

From inside, Christopher called:
 
"I think Mecca's in the other direction."

"Not helping."

"It wasn't intended to.
 
My balls really hurt, Mark."

"Tell it to my nose."

"We need to get moving."

"Famous last words—hold your horses."
 
I grabbed the edge of the door and pulled myself around and then up, tossing the gun in onto my seat, then grabbed the inside door handle and used it to for balance.
 
All in all it only took about a minute to get back inside.
 
Not that bad, considering….

"That was very graceful," said Christopher.

"Your praise means all to me."
 
I slammed the door and sunk into my seat, wondering why my ass suddenly hurt, then realized I was sitting on the gun, which I somehow managed to pull from underneath me without ever once lifting myself up.
 
"I think this is yours."
 
I handed him the gun.
 
"By the way—not that I don't trust you or anything, but—would you mind checking to make sure you didn't lose your pills."

"I didn't."
 
He picked them up off the dashboard and shook them.

I nodded my head, then said:
 
"What now?"

"Kentucky," he said.
 
"We dump the load of shit in the back, then go to my folks' place so you can do your little act."
 
But he didn't start the engine, he just sat there, staring out at the road and breathing hard.

"What is it?" I asked.

"…nothing…" he said, but I could hear the tears in his voice.
 
A few seconds later he looked at me and I could see them in his eyes.
 
"I keep thinking about Thomas.
 
How… it shouldn't have happened, y'know?
 
None
of it should've… shit!
 
I was
supposed
to be looking out for the rest of them, for all of them!
 
I was
supposed
to be the one who thought ten steps ahead, just in case!
 
They
trusted
me, and I… I…"
 
He looked away, lowered his head, and wept.

After I moment I reached out, hesitated, then put my hand on his shoulder.
 
"It wasn't your fault, Christopher.
 
What happened with Thomas and the fire wasn't any of your faults—except Grendel's.
 
You did everything you possibly could, given those goddamn lousy circumstances.
 
He's alive, and he's home, and he'll be happy.
 
Maybe not right away, maybe not for a while, but eventually he'll be happy again, and he's got you to thank for that."

"How do you figure?"

"You're the one who decided to take action and then
did
.
 
Do you think for one second that either Arnold or Rebecca would have been able to do that—just walk right up to that sick worthless evil pile of puke and jam that bone saw in his kneecap?
 
Because I sure as hell don't."

"They're damn brave kids."

"I
know
that!
 
I'm just saying that of the three of you who were in that room, no one else
but
you could've made that first strike.
 
The rest of them didn't have that weapon in their hand; the rest of them didn't have the presence of mind to figure out that you had him outnumbered in a
very
enclosed space; they didn't have it in them to commit that kind of violence against another person, not alone, not by themselves, but you did—and you know why?
 
Because the rest of them didn't have twelve years of god-awful nightmare memories to call on for strength—don't look at me like that.
 
Yeah, I said 'strength'.
 
That's what you showed then, Christopher.
 
Okay, maybe it was vicious and brutal and ugly as hell but it was necessary—and it was
still
strength.
 

"You should be proud of yourself for what you did.
 
I don't know that I could have done it—I don't know that
anyone
could have done it, anyone but you.
 
You took four incredibly frightened kids by the hand and led them out of a dark place of torment so unspeakably horrible that most people can't even begin to imagine it; you took them away from any more suffering at Grendel's inhuman hands.
 
Their anguish is
back there
, you understand me?
 
Yes, they'll have painful memories, and they'll have nightmares, sure—how the hell could they not?—but because of you their anguish has been left back in a damp basement along with the chains on the walls and the shadows in the corners and the echoes of all that screaming from below.
 
And I hope it
rots
.
 
I hope it lays there and sputters and becomes so rancid even the rats won't want it.
 
Because that's where it belongs; not out here with you.
 
You're beyond all that now, you're above it.
 
You always have been.
 
You just didn't want to believe it was possible that you were still a decent human being.
 
Well guess what?
 
I watched you kill a man in cold blood and I'm sitting here, looking right at you, and saying that you very well may be the single most decent human being I've ever met.
 
It may be the only genuine distinction of my life to be able to say that I once knew you.
 
I look at you and think about what you've been through, what you've done, and I feel completely and utterly
insufficient
.
 
You're one of the best people I have ever met, Christopher.
 
I'm proud to be here at your side, buddy.
 
You bet I am."

He was looking at his hands in his lap.
 
They were quite still now.
 
He took a deep breath, looked at me, then slowly reached out his hand, grabbed my nose, and yanked it back in place:
 
the
crack!
that sounded in my skull filled the world and I screamed, doubled forward, and cupped my nose in my hands.

"
What the hell did you do that for?
"

"If you have to set a broken bone, it's best to do it when the other person isn't expecting you to.
 
Hang on and I'll get a splint and some other things."

I was in so much pain I couldn't move, so arguing with him about it didn't seem the constructive thing to do.

He came back with another can of sanitary wipes, some medical tape, and a metal nose-splint with foam padding on the inside.
 
"You're gonna have a couple of black eyes after this one.
 
On the bright side, maybe it'll give your face some character."

"Oh, that's sweet, thank you."

"Lean back."

It took him about ten minutes to clean off my face, check my nose again, and apply the splint.
 
"Use the rest of these to wipe off your hands and neck."
 
He tossed the sanitary wipes into my lap.
 
I checked my face in the mirror; the splint made my face look both threatening and silly.
 
The two shiners were already starting to show.
 
I had other cuts and scrapes on my face and neck that I didn't even realize were there until now.
 
I had looked prettier in my time.

"Still look better than I do," said Christopher, as if he'd read my mind.
 
"By the way—thank you.
 
For what you said.
 
Thank you."

"Uh-huh."

"Do I get to hear about your grandmother now?"

I shook my head.
 
"Nope.
 
I was promised a quote electrifying unquote game of 'Hide the Heifers.'"

"'Bury the Cow.'"

"Whatever.
 
If by the time we're finished with all of this you have more cows, you get to hear all about dear old Grandma; if not, then you're just going to have deal with it."

He started the engine.
 
"Fair enough."

I started to climb out.

"What are you doing?"

"Driving," I said.
 
"I might be in pain but my memory's just fine.
 
Move over.
 
Go on, do it—the blue grass of Kentucky awaits us."

C
hristopher lost the first three rounds of 'Bury the Cow' and decided like a graceful loser that it was time for him to drive again; by then, the pain of my nose was almost blinding me and the glow of victory was rapidly losing its charm, so I took a couple of codeine pills, leaned back in the passenger seat, and felt all shiny again for a while.

I dreamed briefly of dead men in trailers rising to their feet and tearing away duct-taped cardboard, and when they opened their mouths to scream for help, inside of them were the faces of children, their mouths opened in a scream—they were the ones screaming for help, not the dead men—while the faces of other children screamed from inside theirs.

I forced open my eyes and blinked against the sunlight as it strobe through the canopy of leaves above us.

"I was about to wake you," said Christopher.
 
"This is some really pretty country we're passing through—if you can forgive the diesel smoke you see hanging over the treetops every so often.
 
Truckers tend to take it slow through here because these inclines are hell on gears, plus these roads can dip twenty feet or more with no warning.
 
Because of the elevation, the atmosphere doesn't rid itself of exhaust fumes as quickly as it does in the lower parts."

I rubbed my eyes, shaking myself further awake and away from the screaming dead men.
 
"You sound like a tour guide."

"I know."
 
He looked out the windshield.
 
Tears brimmed in his eyes but he was smiling.
 
"You have any idea how long I've dreamed about seeing this road again?
 
I knew it would be just the same.
 
Most roads like this in Kentucky never change.
 
Thank God."

I sat up.
 
Outside it was raining—nothing spectacular, just one of those constant gray drizzles that leaves the road slightly muddy and everything else looking as if it's shimmering from somewhere deep inside.

Have you ever driven through Kentucky?
 
Now, I know from books and television and movies that actual cities are rumored to exist there, but from the route Christopher was taking, you'd never be able to tell it.

I have never seen so many
hills
in my life.
 
The road we were on was this twisting, turning, narrow two-lane snake that wound through lush trees crowding closer to the side every time we made a turn.
 
Even though it was only two-thirty in the afternoon, a luminous mist skirled across the road like ghost-tides lapping at shores no longer existent except in their ghostly memory.
 
We were going uphill all the way so far, and I think we passed maybe four cars, at least three times as many deer, and two semis who moved with the deep-gutted roars and slow, desperate deliberation of dinosaurs crawling from the tar.
 
The one time I dared to peek out the side window and look over into one of the deep ditches—just to see how deep it was—I about passed out from vertigo; the side of the hill (or was it a mountain?) dropped straight down, at least three hundred feet, and into a river speckled with the knotted, bare branches of trees gliding along, having caught a free ride on the current.